Exiled South

By Harriet Cannon

Lizbeth Gordon, a school counselor and master at facilitating conflict resolution in everyone's life but her own, returns home to South Carolina after her husband's sudden death. 

Seeking solace at the ramshackle family cottage, she walks the wint

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781646635450

Harriet Cannon

Harriet Cannon is a writer with roots in South Carolina. As a psychotherapist, she served as a consultant to the Boeing Company, international schools, and worked for the US State Department in Chile. Harriet is co-author of Mixed Blessings: A Guide to Multicultural and Multiethnic Relationships. Exiled South is her debut novel. Harriet and her husband live on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington and have two grown children.

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Praise for Exiled South

"History. Well, along with the characters, we discover anew what a loaded word it can be, manipulated to benefit its acceptable version at the time. No one can stop history from repeating itself. This revelation is at the heart of the story. There are many secrets to anyone’s past, and if we choose to search for shards of truth (another loaded word), we will likely find them like gold coins hidden beneath the floorboards. This is a tale of courage and reckoning, of a woman’s life turned upside down and then righted, or righted enough, a story whose pages will not stop turning because Lizbeth will not let them.

Cannon gives readers just what they want from a historical, yet superbly contemporary, novel: stay-up-until-the-sun-comes-up reading.

—Mary Lou Sanelli, Author of Every Little Thing

"Harriet Cannon’s novel Exiled South rips the cover off traditional Southern sagas and takes you on a riveting international journey across a century, exploring the hidden trauma and deep wounds of three generations of one family following the Civil War. Hats off to Cannon for her bold and exciting new work in a field of multicultural relationships that she knows well. The story Cannon tells reveals that we are all connected in ways we least expect."

—Eleanor McCallie Cooper, Author of Dragonfly Dreams and Grace in China

In her excellent debut novel, Harriet Cannon has created the rich, textured portrait of a woman caught between her family’s mysterious (possibly stained) past and a tumultuous, sometimes tragic present. Cannon constructs a mesmerizing emotional geography for her protagonist, Lizbeth Gordon, a woman determined to fully discover—and to ultimately come to terms with—her ancestral history, while simultaneously navigating her new, unexpected life as a widow and ex-patriate. Cannon’s settings are wonderfully hypnotic—you can almost smell the pluff mud of the South Carolina Lowcountry or hear the strains of ‘The Girl From Ipanema’ wafting over a warm, Rio de Janeiro beach. Lizbeth Gordon is a memorable character on a remarkable journey, and we’re invited to accompany her. And we’re damn lucky to have a writer like Harriet Cannon as our guide.

—Scott Gould, Creative Writing Department, SC Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, Author of Whereabouts, and Things That Crash, Things That Fly

"When Lizbeth Gordon leaves the Pacific Northwest for the sunshine of a South Carolina beach, she’s seeking peace, comfort, and a way to put her life back together. Unexpectedly, her new location gives her the chance to investigate family history and family secrets. Lizbeth seizes the opportunity to explore a past filled with fascinating details about life under siege in Civil War Charleston and the tough post-war choices faced by survivors. Exiled South deftly explores the ways that decisions in the past impact lives in the present. Be sure to check it out for great book club discussion topics."

—Rebecca Hodge, Award-Winning Author of Wildland and Over the Falls

This lively, engaging debut novel transports the reader from the Pacific Northwest to South Carolina, Scotland, and on to Brazil as it follows a twenty-first-century woman who discovers some riveting family secrets. Her blockade-running ancestor’s acts of courage during the American Civil War led to devastating consequences she hopes to mend.

—Josh Dean, Author of The Taking of K-129

"Exiled South is a delightful read. It tells the story of Lizbeth Gordon, forced by tragedy to return to her Southern roots, where she discovers the family history she never knew. The tidbits she uncovers intrigue her and change the trajectory of her life.

—Wendy Hinman, Author of Tightwads on the Loose and Sea Trials: Around the World with Duct Tape and Bailing Wire

tit

Exiled South

by Harriet Cannon

© Copyright 2022 Harriet Cannon

ISBN 978-1-64663-545-0

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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For Grandmama and Mere, story tellers extraordinaire

PROLOGUE

Lizbeth Gordon and Dan Keller fell in love on a Mexican beach in 1988. She was at loose ends after three years in the Peace Corps. He was celebrating his MBA, getting by on his good looks and a few Spanish phrases. They swam and shopped village tiendas and had amazing sex.

One night as they sat on a sand hillock admiring the moon over the Pacific, he teased, If you are from South Carolina, why don’t you have an accent?

She decided to test his mettle with the truth.

I dove into social justice my last year at high school, so I wanted to go to a liberal university up north where I could do more. She shot him a half smile. I danced around the house for hours when the scholarship to a college in New Jersey arrived. She nodded to herself, remembering her naiveté.

But I hadn’t reckoned I’d get harassed for my small-town Southern accent. One guy in English class was a ruthless jerk. He smirked at the way I talked, said my Daddy was probably Ku Klux Klan.

That’s harsh.

It was. It pissed me off when people from Ohio or New York judged me for where I’m from instead of the person I am. She smoothed the frayed edge of her cut-off jeans to keep focused. I made up my mind life would be easier if I fit in. I’ve a good ear for languages. By June, I sounded like a Mid-Atlantic television reporter. She’d meant to stop there but changed her mind. Truth be told, there’s more to why I don’t say much about being Southern.

Tell me.

Lizbeth sucked in a breath and cleared her throat. "My circle of friends believed we could usher in a new age of rainbow races and cultures; we brought speakers to campus, danced to Michael Jackson’s Thriller album, and celebrated when Alice Walker won a Pulitzer Prize for The Color Purple. Remember those days?"

I do.

The warmth of his exhale ruffled her hair.

My senior year I signed up for a course in African American History. She remembers the charismatic visiting professor’s easy smile like it was yesterday. Those who wanted a decent seat in the theater style classroom arrived early.

A girl often sat near me. One day our eyes locked across the aisle. On the way out of class, she introduced herself as Angela, but we didn’t chat again.

Lizbeth’s voice faltered. Suddenly her throat was full of phlegm. Goddammit, she’d started her story, and she was going to finish no matter the consequences. She cleared her throat.

Angela waited for the perfect moment to drop her bomb. The syllabus topic that day was ‘politics of reparations for enslaved people.’ During question-and-answer time, Angela stood. She introduced herself as Angela Gordon, a proud Black woman. She pointed at me. ‘Over there is Lizbeth Gordon, my White cousin whose ancestors enslaved mine in the Piedmont area of South Carolina.’ I was appalled. My Granddaddy Gordon was from the Piedmont.

Lizbeth covered her heart with her hand, to keep it from bolting from her chest. Retelling the story was like being back in that classroom, bathed in a shower of shame. She sucked in air until she could continue with a steady voice.

The professor invited Angela and me onto the stage with him. He made a big deal of facilitating a reconciliation conversation on the spot. I said the institution of slavery was a low point in human history and apologized for my slaveholding family. That wasn’t difficult. It’s what I believe. But standing at the podium with Angela while she and a couple hundred of my peers fired off questions about my White Southern family crushed me.

Why didn’t the professor intervene when it got nasty? Lizbeth felt Dan’s arms draw her close.

I don’t know. Angela had seized the spotlight and was on a roll. She produced a photograph of a mixed-race woman, ‘my granny’s mama,’ and passed it to the professor and then around the room.

Lizbeth bit the inside of her cheek remembering the triumph in Angela’s voice when she said, Enslaved women can’t say no to the master.

Angela grabbed my hand and raised our arms up in a salute to the class. Behold the cousins! The class clapped. A few even whoop-whooped.

Lizbeth sat up and rolled her shoulders, wishing she could roll that afternoon out of her life. Angela produced a camera and asked the professor to snap some pictures. She pulled me in close. Lizbeth’s lips twisted in a grotesque smile. Cheese please Angela said and, I complied like a puppet. No one noticed Angela’s thumb and index finger like a crab claw at my waist. I had a bruise for a week.

Wow.

Yeah, it was awful. Retelling the events of that afternoon made her nauseous.

Did you know your ancestors were slaveholders?

Well, kinda, but not specifically. Lizbeth wet her lips. Slaveholding before the Civil War wasn’t exactly dinner table conversation at home, but yeah, I heard stories. Yeoman farmers like my people could buy a slave if they had a couple of good harvest years. I don’t doubt Angela’s story. We could be related. I get her anger. She must have experienced racism, as well as her family stories of enslavement.

It’s odd she would want a picture of the two of you.

Angela wasn’t finished with me. Lizbeth shivered and Dan gently folded the edges of their colorful Mexican beach blanket around her bare legs. "The next week she and I were on the front page of the newspaper with a caption that read, Angela Gordon, student with enslaved ancestors, finds her cousin, Lizbeth Gordon, fellow student and descendant of slaveholders."

That was mean-spirited.

It was, Lizbeth said through pursed lips.

An editor at the paper had called me for permission to print a picture of ‘the reunited cousins.’ I knew, if I refused the editor’s request, Angela would have spread the word I was a racist. Nightmares of those isolated last months at college still plagued her.

I spent the rest of my senior year pinned with a scarlet letter, watching my liberal friends pass by on campus like I’d developed a peculiar body odor. She reached into her pocket for a tissue.

Dan pulled Lizbeth deeper into the crook of his shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Did you talk to Angela again?

No. I dropped the class. After graduation, I didn’t go home to Neely, South Carolina. I worked as a waitress in Charleston until I got a job as a Peace Corps volunteer. Now it’s time to head back to the States, get a job, and get a life. Lizbeth looked into her lover’s face. Her lips quirked in a wistful smile.

Dan squeezed her shoulder and returned her smile. Why don’t you come home to Washington State with me?

PART ONE

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

William Faulkner

CHAPTER ONE

Olympic Peninsula, Washington State, December 2009

Lizbeth Gordon reheats last night’s chili, fills her wine glass with merlot, and sits alone at the kitchen table reading the Sounding News. It sooths her to pore over local news and gossipy letters to the editor late in the day. Between school district politics and a depressed student in her office this afternoon, she needs soothing.

Where’s Dan?

At seven-thirty she calls his cell, which goes directly to voice mail. She leaves an upbeat message. Dan’s become touchy when he’s tardy. Is he punishing her by sending her calls to voice mail? That seems a little paranoid, but, well, his behavior has been odd lately.

Last week they’d argued about his long hours. Then he did a 180 and teased her, like the old days, Lizbeth, my darling, you’re stalking me. Life is more fluid with Josh and Robbie at college. Lighten up.

I worry when you’re late.

Don’t.

Dan’s been her rock for twenty years. How can she doubt him? Six weeks after they arrived in Washington State, the home pregnancy test confirmed her suspicion. She had trepidations about starting a family with a man she’d only known a couple of months, but Dan organized a party and passed out cigars.

They settled in artsy Port Benton. Dan started his dream business as a marketing consultant for Native American casinos and small resorts propagating like mushrooms on the pristine Olympic Peninsula. When Josh and Robbie entered kindergarten, Lizbeth entered graduate school. Family life and work were a dream come true with only a hiccup after the twins left for university. She’d burst into tears while stirring spaghetti sauce for two instead of a crowd of teenage boys. Dan had hugged her till she smiled again. She’d rallied by starting a counseling practice after school hours. And yoga three times a week that did marvelous things for her butt.

But lately, she’s been wondering what’s up with Dan’s evening meetings.

Lizbeth knows she’s a master at facilitating conflict resolution in everybody’s life but her own. Dammit! Something’s fishy.

She gets up and dumps her dishes in the sink. Dan can clean up. She tops off her wine glass, takes a sip, changes her mind, does up her dishes, wipes the counters down, and starts the dishwasher. The rain pounds like a gorilla clogging on the roof. Concerned, she opens the door onto their front yard and breathes in the heavy, wet scent. The wind whips her exhale into white smoke. In the glow of the porch light, thick drops dance on the front walk.

She hugs herself standing in the glassed-in porch of their 1940s-era home and floats in memories. When Josh and Robbie were young, the porch was full of boots standing in hunks of dried dirt, piles of sneakers, and scooters that belonged in the garage. Now the shelves Dan built to provide some order are empty except for her gardening boots, a couple pairs of Dan’s running shoes, and a small bag of bird seed.

She stares into the angry storm, takes a sip of wine, and speed-dials Dan’s cell again. It goes to voice mail again. Dan had a meeting in Port Angeles. He’ll be traveling on a rural road with a reputation for landslides and wrecks. She’s got to distract herself until she can wrap her arms around her husband and know he’s home safe.

Cell in hand, Lizbeth ascends to their upstairs TV room with each step pounding a note of frustration. Dan still teases her as he always has and brings her flowers on Friday nights like he always has, but lately he prefers reality TV instead of classic country music to relax. Exactly when did mindless entertainment replace their shoulder-to-shoulder time on the couch dueling over New York Times book reviews and politics? And yet, when the lights are low, and the music is right, they satisfy each other in bed like they did at twenty-something. They’re fortunate to have that in middle age, right? All kinds of stories including husbands with wandering eyes and partners with porn on the computer drift around the teacher’s lounge.

Lizbeth decides there’s no reason to micromanage Dan’s intentions. She clicks the television on.

CHAPTER TWO

On the Keller-Gordon front porch, Officer Brian Warwicki sets his face in a neutral pose, straightens his shoulders, finger-combs his military-cut salt-and-pepper hair, and presses the bell.

Lizbeth is well into streaming a rerun of CSI: Miami and feeling a sleepy buzz from the wine when the doorbell chimes. Odd. Could she have locked Dan out? No way. No one in this small community locks the door. There it is again. Definitely the doorbell. She takes the stairs down two at a time and yanks open the door to find their neighbor, Brian, in full uniform, standing in the front porch.

What’s happened, Brian? Lizbeth takes in the police cruiser in the driveway. Her heart speeds up, beating a tempo of Oh my God. . . . Oh my God. . . . Oh my God. . . .

May I come in?

Yes, of course. She steps aside, waving him toward the living room, closing the door. Her mind an iceberg of fear, her body moves on automatic pilot as she follows him into the living room.

Please sit down, Liz.

Lizbeth lowers herself on the couch by the fireplace, sinking into the overly soft cushions. She escapes momentarily from whatever is coming.

I really should get these cushions re-stuffed.

Tension thrums through her body. She laces her fingers, nails digging into the back of her hands, forming half-moon indentations. She waits.

Warwicki takes a seat in Dan’s favorite wing-backed chair, his lips set in a grim line.

I’ve got some hard news, Liz. Please hear me out. Then I’ll answer your questions. Brian clears his throat. Dan was in a terrible wreck on Highway 20. His injuries were profound. Warwicki’s eyes hold Lizbeth’s prisoner. In spite of Fire and Rescue’s best efforts, Dan died at the scene.

His words shoot into her heart with paralyzing pain.

No, she says. Then, No, no, no . . . that can’t be true. She begins rocking back and forth like a religious student at prayers, closing her world off from everything. A low keening escapes her lips.

Brian’s firm hand on her forearm brings her back.

Look at me, Liz. I’m so sorry. Dan was my friend and a wonderful guy. Brian threads his fingers through Lizbeth’s to get her attention. I want someone to sit with you. Who shall I call?

No, no, no . . . Take me to Dan. I need to see him! Her heart is beating like it’s going to explode out of her chest. Lizbeth jumps up, searching the room with wild eyes. Where’s my purse?

Brian stands, gently wraps his hands around her upper arms, and draws them both back down onto the couch.

I hate to have to tell you this, but . . . state law requires an autopsy be performed after a fatal wreck. Dan’s body has been taken to the Levitz Funeral Home. It will be several days before the pathologist files a report with the county coroner. Then Dan’s body will be released to you. There is no way you can see him tonight.

PLEASE, Brian. I need to see my husband.

I’m sorry, Liz. That’s not possible.

Lizbeth pinches her eyes closed, willing herself to another planet or at least back to yesterday so she can create an alternate reality to this one. She feels Brian’s arm tighten around her shoulders, bringing her back.

I need to hear it all, Brian. Tell me everything. Her eyes search Brian’s deep blue ones as she squares her shoulders.

Are you sure, Liz?

Tell me, Brian, she whispers with an exhale.

No one actually saw the wreck. A citizen passed by shortly afterward and called nine one one. By chance, I was patrolling nearby. I was the first cop on the scene. Brian runs his hand over his hair. Questions remain about how and why it happened. We’ll do an investigation, of course. At this time, we estimate Dan was driving around seventy miles an hour in a forty-five-mile-an-hour zone, through those S curves near Anderson Lake Road.

Lizbeth gasps and slaps her hand over her mouth.

What are you saying? Dan’s not reckless. He loves that Mustang like a third child. Is she going to faint? She never faints.

I agree.

Brian stops for a moment. She notices him notice her hands, white and bloodless, gripping the couch cushion on either side of her knees. She swallows hard, trying to stay calm.

Tell me the rest, Brian.

Are you sure you?

Yes

I found Dan unconscious at the scene. His car had run up a bank, flipped over and skidded on its roof. His seat belt held him suspended upside down. I want you to know we believe Dan lost consciousness as his Mustang hit the rocky bank.

This can’t be real! Lizbeth stares into Brian’s face, willing him to agree.

Lizbeth, listen to me. I can’t stay long, but I won’t leave you alone. Who can I call to be with you?

My cousin Charlotte, Lizbeth chokes out. She’s on speed dial on my cell. She swipes at tears streaming her cheeks. Her body begins to shake like a sapling in a Nor’wester.

How soon can she get here?

I don’t know. Lizbeth hiccups. She lives in Greenville, South Carolina.

You can call Charlotte later. Right now, let’s get someone from the neighborhood.

Oh my God . . . Josh and Robbie. What will I tell them? Lizbeth is hyperventilating.

Brian takes her by the shoulders.

Look at me, Liz. Where do you keep your paper bags?

In the pantry, she says, gulping air, pointing toward the kitchen.

He returns with a brown paper lunch bag, blows into it to expand it, covers Lizbeth’s nose and mouth, and tells her to breathe deeply.

Minutes pass. Lizbeth drops the bag and stares at her neighbor.

Please, let me wake up from this nightmare! Her breathing is normal, but her body is shaking. Is she going into shock?

Brain grabs a crocheted throw from the arm of the couch and wraps it around Lizbeth’s shoulders.

I’m going to call Susan Munoz from down the block. They both know reliable Susan, the sixty-something neighbor and grandmother, known for her big-hearted community volunteerism.

Lizbeth hears Brian’s low conversation with Susan as if it is coming through a tunnel. Susan arrives and takes Lizbeth into her arms. His hand on the door, Brian says, You know where to find me if you need me, he salutes a wave as he slips out.

Susan holds Lizbeth on the couch until she has no tears left. Later, Lizbeth phones her sons and Charlotte.

Susan pours cups of herbal tea and stays until Josh and Robbie arrive in a borrowed car from college, two hours away.

CHAPTER THREE

Greenville, South Carolina, to Port Benton, Washington, December 2009

Charlotte Gordon Beal books the first available flight from Greenville to Seattle. It’s no surprise when Lizbeth volunteers Josh or Robbie to collect her at the airport.

No way, darlin’. Keep your babies close to home now.

Are you sure, Char?

Absolutely. I’ve reserved a Mercedes coupe. You know I’m particular about my ride.

Charlotte has made the sixty-plus-mile drive from the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport to the Olympic Peninsula before and is prepared for the trek. After the Hood Canal Bridge, the scenery gets very rural very fast. Skyscraper-size